Her voice sounded more decided than usual, sounded almost hard.
"And, dearest boy," she continued, "thank the circumstances and marry now, as quickly as possible. Our relations with foreign countries are at this moment such that there are no particular indications as to whom you ought to marry. You can more or less pick and choose. For you are the crown-prince of a great empire, my boy, of one of the greatest empires in Europe...."
He tried to speak; she continued, hurriedly:
"I repeat, you can—very nearly—choose. You don't know how much that means. Appreciate this, appreciate the circumstances. Travel to all the courts of Europe that are worth considering. Use your eyes, make your choice. There are pretty princesses in England, in Austria...."
Othomar closed his eyes an instant, as though exhausted with weariness:
"Later on, mamma," he whispered.
"No, my boy," said the empress, "do not speak of later on, do not put off. Think it over. Think how you will order your journey and whom you will take with you and then talk it over with papa and Myxila. Will you promise?"
He just pressed his head against her and promised, with a weary smile.
"But what's the matter with you, my boy?" she asked. "What is it?"
His eyes grew moist.